So I was thinking about the Vicodin the urgent care doctor prescribed to me a couple weeks ago when I went in to get a splinter dug out from under my big toe. He cut me and didn’t find the splinter because I had already dug it out. The doctor knocked the splinter off the counter where I’d placed it to show him when he returned and placed medical instruments where the sliver had been. He didn’t believe I’d already gotten it out and would not listen to me that he needed to look first before injecting me with a numbing agent and then cutting me. Alas, no splinter was found. I asked for a pain pill to take once back at work in case my toes started hurting. The doctor prescribed 15 or so. I stopped by Walmart and picked up that the antibiotics he’d prescribed too so I could start taking them. As the day wore on, my toe throbbed, but not enough. I took 3 advil and called it good.
As I drove home today, having bought and almost ate a 5″x5″ slab of peanut butter fudge as part of a bake sale fundraiser for a co-worker who had a stroke and was off work (it was a very good cause) (that’s my reasoning for being bad), I thought of all the things I wasn’t. I wasn’t a pill addict. I have trouble taking pills and still have the full bottle of Vicodin to show my therapist…but why? To show I’m not a pill addict. I have the means to become one, but that is not my drug of choice.
Sunday at the Moose Lodge, I went to their family picnic. I bought a butter shot in a 2 ounce plastic cup and nursed it for about 45 minutes. The bartender even put a little ice cube in it so it would be cold. It was just enough alcohol for me and it tasted sweet. One drink, 45 minutes, that’s not the mark of an alcoholic. So because I am not a pill addict or an alcoholic makes my overeating okay? No, it’s just that I’m a different kind of addict.